


Swords, Sarcasm & Starlight

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: The Witcher (TV), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, I'm Sorry, Roach, Sarcasm, medieval fayres, no one asked for this, thor/the witcher mash-up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22346416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: “What about a dating site? You know, it’s the 21st century, it’s not uncool anymore.”Darcy Lewis glanced over at her best friend and confidante, the (happily married) Jane Foster, and shrugged. “What site besides the ones I’ve tried? Right now I’m pretty much only interested in "Given Up On Love dot com" - for cynical people.”The Thor/The Witcher mashup that no one asked for or wanted.
Relationships: Darcy Lewis x Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 58
Kudos: 231





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to my beta, the talented writer and all around nice gal, @lokimostly . Check out her work - you'll be spellbound.

“What about a dating site? You know, it’s the 21st century, it’s not uncool anymore.”

Darcy Lewis glanced over at her best friend and confidante, the (happily married) Jane Foster, and shrugged. “What site besides the ones I’ve tried? Right now I’m pretty much only interested in **"** Given Up On Love dot com **"** \- for cynical people.” She sniggered at her own joke.

Jane added more creamer to her coffee, sipped and winced - Darcy had many talents but coffee was not one of them - and rolled her eyes. “Being cynical is a choice.”

“But you gotta admit, if there was such a website, I’d finally manage to find someone as cynical as me. But with a dick. I mean, I’m open to experimenting, but-”

Jane took another testing sip. “Honestly, forget I said anything. It’s far too early in the morning for this level of information.”

Darcy smiled fondly as she put the finishing touches to her latest constellation portrait. She’d grown her business on Etsy, taking popular constellations and re-imagining them as animals, humans and abstract art. Over time, commissions had started coming her way, and after a stint at a craft fayre, things had taken off so much that she’d been able to give up her day job as an astronomy research assistant. She’d always been crazy about the night sky, stars, and starlight, but creating art from them was her true calling; what made her heart sing.

“I’ve dated so many losers at this point that I could give three-part seminars on what to look for. I’m fine being alone. It’s easier, and I get the remote to myself.”

“That is one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard,” Jane said, staring into her coffee. It stared back at her, silently menacing and still tasting awful. 

“Easy for you to say when you’re married to a guy who could probably bench press your entire house without breaking a sweat.”

Jane flushed at that and Darcy cackled. Her friend was too easy to tease. Sometimes she couldn’t help herself.

After Jane left, Darcy poured away the remains of the coffee - had it really been that bad? - and started assembling all her materials for the medieval fayre she planned to attend this coming weekend. She’d rented a tent to display her artwork in. Last year she’d had a lot of interest but pitifully few sales. The fayre organiser had offered her a stall for half price **;** she decided to give it another punt. If nothing else, the drive to the huge field area in New York State was easy, there were usually loads of stacked dudes in hero pants and tight shirts, and she knew from the website that one of her favourite street food places would be serving. Not a bad way to spend two days at all.

In the morning, she packed her little Fiat chock **-** full of enough clothes for the weekend, some food, and all the complete artwork she had available. She took paints and brushes too, sure she’d be bored at least some of the time. The car purred along the motorway and it wasn’t long before she turned into the stallholders’ car parking area, parking next to a beaten-up truck with a horse-box attached to it.

She popped her trunk and started gathering supplies.

“Fuck.” 

Darcy stopped at the sound of the deep baritone. British? Definitely not American.

“Bring the horse, they said. He’ll enjoy a trip out, they said.” There was some more cursing, then, “Got something to add, Roach? Don’t-”

Unable to still her natural curiosity, Darcy crossed around the front of the truck. The back of the horse box looked open and she peeked around the edge.

“Uh….. you okay in there?”

Perhaps one of the tallest men she’d ever seen looked around the neck of a horse at least eighteen hands high. The animal’s coat shone, but the look in his eyes was one of pure amusement. Darcy quickly saw why - there was a steaming pile of horse manure in the back of the trailer. Clearly fresh.

“He hates travelling,” the stranger said.

“Er… right.” She couldn’t move. He was freaking gorgeous. Broad shoulders, chest wide enough for her to curl up and sleep on. He wore a black shirt, partially unlaced and open at the neck. His torso tapered into leather trousers and calf-high biker boots. Pale hair, the colour of moonlight, was drawn back from his face and fell to his shoulders. Cheekbones she could cut herself on framed a strong jaw and amber eyes. “I’m Darcy, by the way?” 

The handsome stranger eyed her speculatively. “Hmmm,” he rumbled.

“I know what you’re thinking, that it’s a boy’s name. Well, it isn’t. Technically it’s only been famously used as a last name, but-” She stopped short. Hot Stranger had turned away from her and was picking up a shovel, presumably to deal with the horse’s tangible response to travelling.

“Guys would literally rather shovel shit than speak to me. Wow,” she muttered, and turned to walk back to her car.

She rounded the truck to find her car where she left it - but not how she left it. Two spotty guys, no more than twenty probably, dressed in cheap nylon tabards were in the process of raiding her trunk. Her art was worth fighting for and she'd be damned if she let them have a scrap of her work. “Not on my watch, douche canoes,” she gritted out.

“Hey, bozos!” She yelled, rushing towards them. One of them looked up and the other one headed straight for her. Darcy knew a moment of fear and put her fists up, ready to defend her art. She had teeth and shoulders and knees and by God, a mom who’d taught her to use them and use them well. “Come and get it, asshat!” 

The guy headed right for her stopped short, his mouth forming a perfect O as he looked past her shoulder. 

“I.. ah… I…” he stuttered.

His friend looked up too, and dropped Darcy’s expensive bag of art supplies and gold leaf. “Holy shit.”

They ran off, empty handed. It looked as if the shorter one had pissed his pants. Darcy hoped it stained. She turned, surprised, and then her heart fell into her panties.

Hot Stranger stood behind her, looking ready for battle, eyes wild, mouth set in a grim line. His leather-gloved hands wielded a sword almost as tall as Darcy. The sun glinted off the long line of metal, reflecting on the line of little silver rivets sewn into his shirt. He looked like a medieval avenging angel, a knight protecting his maiden (not that Darcy was, in any sense, a maiden), the hero of a fantasy novel, about to storm a castle.

_I’d let him storm my castle._

“Er… thanks,” Darcy managed. “I don’t know how to rep-”

“No problem.” He slid the sword into an honest-to-God leather scabbard mounted on his back, and looked at her with those strangely enchanting amber-ringed eyes. Then he nodded as if satisfied, and turned back to his truck. To resume shovelling shit, presumably.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the fayre begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well over THIRTY of you have subscribed to this story and I am humbled! Thank you!!
> 
> And as always thank you to my talented beta @lokimostly

Geralt finished cleaning up the mess (thanks, Roach) and loaded all his wares on to the jury-rigged garden wagon he used for fayres like this. Swords were fucking heavy **,** and he wasn’t leaving Roach on his own for long to go back for more. God only knew when Yennefer might decide to grace him with her presence. She was someone he would absolutely want by his side in an emergency, but punctuality had never been her strong suit. ****

Roach walked docilely by his side as he followed the fayre goers up the paved lane, littered with signage for “medieval” street food (with much less vermin, one would hope), musical acts and services.

If Geralt had stopped to look around him, he’d have wondered if he was going mad. Blacksmithing was never going to lead to an ordinary life, that was why he’d chosen it, but medieval fayres were something else. There was often proper jousting, revelry late into the night, and if he was lucky, a few maidens willing to go for a tumble in some hay nearby. His height and his silver-grey hair made him stand out, made him memorable. He was lucky enough that he had a comely face; that helped. But mostly he was told that his broadness made him attractive for a good time. Geralt didn’t mind at all. He wasn’t looking for anything serious and neither were they. Everyone walked away happy.

His mind drifted to the spunky brunette who’d parked next to him in her tiny Tardis of a fiat. It had been no trouble to fend off those boys. Barely old enough to shave, they’d seen an opportunity and taken it. Geralt was no white knight, but he couldn’t stand by and watch someone get robbed. 

It had been rude of him to leave in the middle of her thanking him, but he’d had more pressing matters, namely a pile of manure in the horsebox. Dealing with it (while Roach gave him the side-eye) and getting his stall set up in good time had put an end to small talk (not that Geralt indulged in much anyway).

He reached the wide tent he’d been allocated **and** saw that it was split in two to share with another stallholder. The table, chair and display board he’d requested were already set up. He tethered Roach to one of the tent posts and got to work. The sun shone down, already warm, and wispy clouds drifted across the cornflower blue sky. 

Within a half hour, Witcher Armoury’s black and silver wolf-emblazoned tabard had been erected. Geralt had a flask of hot, black coffee on the go, Roach was nibbling from his feed bag, and all was well with the world. He laid down scabbards on the clothed table and slid blunted example swords into the custom made bench in the tent, as medieval music carried through the air. He glanced at one of the posters across the way. _Jaskier & the Dandelions._ They were all dressed as bards from long ago. A younger Geralt might have laughed. But not this one. Thanks to people who LARPed and/or frequented this sort of event, he made his living, and he’d never look down on a potential customer.

Especially when, if he admitted it, he was partial to a medieval fayre himself. Jousting, revelry, swords and maidens. What was there not to love?

“Well, hey there neighbour!”

Geralt looked up and almost bobbled his flask. Darcy. The perky brunette started to set up on the other side of the tent - his tent - looking none the worse for wear from her shock earlier at the hands of the pimply faced would-be thieves. **_T_** _hey’d think again before trying a stunt like that_ , he mused, smirking.

“Thanks again for earlier,” she was saying when he tuned back in. “You looked really, really badass. You could give my friend’s husband a run for his money.” 

Geralt grunted a response, working on polishing his example swords so the hammered steel shone in the sunshine.

“So… you made all those?”

“Yes.” He finished polishing a broadsword and moved on to a dagger, glancing at Darcy to see what she was doing. She moved gracefully around her stand, fussing with things and erecting little canvas display props. She had one huge picture that she mounted on a big free-standing board behind her. It depicted a re-imagining of the Leo constellation, with “Leo” as a woman with a mane of silky hair and a **"** come hither **"** expression. Her work was almost lyrical in its smoothness. Yennefer would go mad over it.

Too late, Darcy saw him looking. “This is only my second fayre. People seem to dig my work, so.” She gave a little half-shrug that made the corner of her wide-necked blouse slip down, revealing the curve of one shapely shoulder. “Do you come here often? I mean, as a stallholder. I’m not trying to pick you up, or anything. You did make it clear that you’d rather scoop horse poop than talk to me.” 

Roach whinnied. Geralt rolled his eyes. Traitorous beast. Roach had always been a sucker for a pretty face. “I didn’t-”

Darcy grinned. “Gotta have your say, huh,” she tossed at Roach. “I like your horse. I think he’s chattier than you.”

Despite himself, Geralt felt his lips curve. She wasn’t wrong. “That’s Roach.”

She tilted her head to one side. “And I’ve yet to learn your name.”

“Geralt.” He moved out from his table and offered a hand. She took it, and they shook. Her fingers were small and soft in his larger, scarred hand. “Your work is beautiful.” Enchantingly quirky, like the artist, he nearly said, but thought better of it, and dropped her hand. 

“Thanks. Thanks a lot. May I?” she asked, gesturing to the swords on the blanketed table.

Geralt studied her for a moment. The morning sunlight caught on her hair, picking out the gold within the chocolate brown. Her blue eyes sparked, and for a moment his chest pulled tight. Then the feeling passed, and he offered her a sword appropriate for her height and build. As she wielded it, he imagined her in medieval garb with fire in her eyes and murder in her voice, and hell if it wasn’t incredibly hot.

|   
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	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy and Geralt start to get to know each other better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO IS HERE FOR THIS!!!
> 
> Thanks to my beta and pal, @lokimostly

People started to arrive in bigger numbers as the sun rose higher in the sky. Darcy worked on setting out her art just so, talking to passersby who admired her work. Within an hour she’d sold three prints and had orders for three more.

  


Next to her Geralt was doing an equally brisk trade. His remarkably well behaved horse seemed to join in the conversation with potential customers, tossing his pretty mane and pawing the ground when money changed hands. Darcy smiled at the beast. Roach was the fair opposite of Geralt - sunny where the man was scowly, loud where he was silent.

  


Had she imagined the flare of heat in his eyes when she’d wielded the sword? It’d been heavier than she’d expected, a weight in her hands, centering her body mass. For a second, the sun had caught on the tip of the blade, and she’d felt the stirring of power. What must it be like to create these? She’d pictured Geralt, hair falling over his face as he worked over a white-hot forge, hammer in hand, face creased in concentration. Their eyes had met and she’d felt it, that little tingle of awareness skating pleasantly down her spine.

  


Later, that tingle turned to disappointment when a stunning raven-haired woman walked up to his stall.

  


“Afternoon,” Darcy heard Geralt grouse, although it was barely eleven am.

  


The woman wore a long black dress with a corseted body. Her almond shaped kohled eyes darted over to Darcy and back again before she refocused her attention on Geralt. “We didn’t officially agree on a time.” She tucked her hand in a pocket of the amazing Wizard Queen dress and fished out an apple, offering it to Roach. The horse nickered and took it.

  


The rest of their exchange was lost to Darcy as she served a mother wanting to place an order for her husband’s birthday. When she looked over next, the gorgeous Wizard Queen was sashaying over to her, extending a hand, her huge skirt whispering along the grass. Darcy felt a moment of disquiet. What would this artwork of a person want with her?

  


“I’m Yennefer.”

  


“Darcy.” 

  


Yennefer extended her hand and Darcy took it. The woman might have walked off a catwalk, or stepped right off a cinema screen, and Darcy suddenly felt very under-dressed in her peasant skirt and white frilly blouse. It was all she’d had in the vaguely medieval style on short notice. 

  


“Your work is beautiful,” Yennefer began, picking up a piece that Darcy particularly loved, depicting the Cetus constellation as a young whale, starlit tail flipping playfully. “I came over as Geralt the Grumpy would never have introduced us.”

  


“Yeah, he’s no Chatty Cathy, that’s for sure.”

  


Yennefer laughed, a full on cackle, and Darcy decided that she’d misjudged her. She’d thought the gorgeous woman aloof, but beauty didn’t always mean arrogance. 

  


“Are you his…”

  


“No.” That vivacious laugh again. “We’re friends, sort of business partners. I run the marketing side of the business for him - I designed the logo. And I put my time in at fayres like these so he doesn’t have to do it alone. He’s big on that, going it alone, I mean.”

  


Darcy glanced over. Geralt was deep in consultation with a customer admiring the huge broadswords. He held one up, demonstrating how to wield it. The muscles in his arms flexed as he moved, and Darcy felt that quick one-two punch of desire in her gut.

  


“He’s quite something,” Yennefer mused.

  


Darcy looked away, her cheeks heating from being caught looking. “Um, yeah, I guess. If you like the barbarian type.”

  


Yennefer chuckled, her kohl-lined eyes not missing a trick. “Honey, we’re at a medieval fayre. Everyone here likes the barbarian type. Anyway. I’d better go and prove my worth before he scowls me to death.” She skirted round Darcy’s stall to go and assist Geralt.

  


Lunch came and went as Darcy dealt with over a dozen enthusiastic customers. Her order book was nearly full, and she’d have to close her Etsy shop for over a week to deal with just what she’d taken payment for today. Feeling cheered but hungry, she peered over to see that Geralt and Yennefer had a lull in custom.

  


“Hey, um, Geralt?”

  


He looked over at her, a half smile breaking up the perpetual scowl on his handsome face.

  


“I really need to get lunch. Would you mind keeping an eye on my side of the tent for twenty minutes?”

  


Yennefer shoved Geralt - twice her breadth - out into the path of a few wandering minstrels, who squawked and scattered. “You two go. I’ll mind both the stands.”

  


“Subtle, Yen, real subtle,” Geralt muttered as he turned to Darcy. “You needn’t feel railroaded by her.”

  


“I’m happy to be railroaded by anyone as long as there’s food.” She called a thank you to Yennefer, who smiled suggestively. “Does she always try and set you up with anything that breathes?”

  


Geralt frowned thoughtfully as they headed towards the food court area of the fayre. The aroma of roasting meat and spiced vegetables floated on the summer breeze and Darcy’s stomach contracted with hunger. “Not usually, but I have been her pet project for some time.”

Darcy shoved her hands into her pockets. The good thing about ren clothes - loads of storage for the modern day wench about town. "Really? Not enough gals lining up to play She-Ra?"

Geralt's brow furrowed for a moment before a smile ghosted over his face. "Points for the He Man reference. And no, no one has played She Ra for some time."

Darcy didn't know what to say to that. Luckily, they reached the food area and no reply was needed. Her gaze roved over the offerings. Her favourite food stand, Vagabond's, had a long line, but boy, she knew it was worth it. Without thinking, she grabbed Geralt's arm. Wow, did he have muscles. And then some. "You have _got_ to try their burgers. Had one last time I staffed a ren fayre. Best meat I've ever had in my mouth."

When he raised a questioning brow, she rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I know. Come on. Let's eat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write a happy Yen. I hope she doesn't feel too clunky or out of character.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burgers are had, and plans are made.

The burgers were  _ insane, _ Darcy thought again as she and Geralt found a bench and sat down, digging in. He’d ordered a steak burger with everything on it, in her hands she held a classic burger with a bacon and maple syrup glaze that should have been illegal.

The noise of the fayre swirled and clamoured around them as they ate side by side. When Darcy had finished, she balled her wrapper in her palm. “Always the sign of a good food stand. When no one talks during the eating.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, which Darcy took as agreement.

Plenty of women - and men - eyed Geralt in passing, and Darcy mulled over his previous words. No way there hadn’t been a queue of ready people of both genders just lining up to play She-Ra to his He Man.  _ No fucking way. _

Unless he was hiding a load of skeletons in his closet. It would just be her luck.

“So… how’d you get into the sword making business?” she asked, rolling the curled-up wrapper between her palms. 

Geralt finished his own burger and smoothed out the wrapper meticulously. Darcy had once read in  _ Cosmo _ that men who did that were very attentive in bed. Her toes curled and she made herself look away from his hands.  _ Get a grip, Darce. _

“I’ve always had a knack for metalwork, stuff with my hands. I went to Blacksmith summer school as a teenager - seemed more fun than getting a summer job, and I loved it, loved the fire, the clang of metal, the sheer  _ magic _ of creating something so solid.” He blinked, then shook his head slightly as if he’d gone to another world, and maybe he had. “And what about you, your art?”

Darcy stared out at the expanse of field around them. In the distance, a few guys on horseback held standards bearing family crests, real or fictional, it didn’t matter one bit somewhere like this. At a ren fayre it was impossible to tell real aristocrats from cosplayers, and that was just the way she liked it. “My parents used to listen to  _ The Sky at Night _ on the BBC World Service when I was little,” she began, smiling at the memory of it. “Patrick Moore’s voice as he waxed lyrical about the stars was like a lullaby to me. I started drawing stars almost before I could properly write my own name.”

Geralt smiled, his lips curving at the left corner of his mouth first, and Darcy wondered how he’d taste, coffee and the sweetness of the relish in his burger… and what else? Warm, broad  _ man? _

She shook the thought off. Just because his insanely gorgeous friend wanted to set him up, did not mean he  _ wanted _ to be set up. Maybe, like Darcy, he had really had no motivation other than being really, really hungry.

“Hey, um…” Darcy stopped abruptly, suddenly uncharacteristically shy. “Are you going to that concert tonight? Jaskier and the Dandelions?”

“Maybe.” He met her gaze, his warm, his amber eyes dancing with mischief, and for a frozen moment Darcy was totally poleaxed by how  _ gorgeous _ he was, pale hair fluttering in the sunshine, his broad shoulders filling out his tunic perfectly. “Are you asking me on a date?”

Nerves warred with pleasure in Darcy’s stomach. “If I was, would you say yes? If not, then, no, I am definitely only asking out of sheer curiosity about whether you can dance a medieval jig.”

Geralt laughed, the sound throaty and definitely more than a little bit sexy. “If you  _ were _ asking me on a date, then theoretically, I would say yes.”

Darcy aimed at a nearby trash can - garbed ridiculously in papery medieval flag material (an actual bin was more attractive and way more portable than a cesspit after all) - and then tossed her balled up burger wrapper, scoring a perfect hit. “Then it’s a date.”

*******

A few hours later, the stalls were starting to wrap up, and Darcy decided to drive to her (budget) hotel to freshen up before the concert later. The clock struck six p.m as she packed up her stuff, leaving only the faire-provided lockbox with the bare minimum inside it. She pulled the huge bag over her shoulder, thankful as she usually was at these gigs that canvas and paintbrushes weighed so little.

Yennefer stood on duty next door. Geralt had gone about a half hour ago, to settle Roach in the nearby stable, and, she assumed, to freshen up at his own hotel or tent. She couldn’t imagine him as a 300-threadcount sheet kind of guy, but you never knew.

He’d sent her a loaded smile as he’d prepared to leave, and a little frisson of excitement had skated down her spine.  _ Maybe barbarians are my type after all. _

“Have fun tonight,” Yennefer grinned as Darcy went to bid her goodbye. “I hear Jaskier’s brilliant. Very romantic.”

“As romantic as possible, I guess, given the amount of meat and, by that time, the amount of costumes and wigs that are askew.”

Yennefer laughed, startled, and then smiled warmly. “I do like you, Darcy. Try and loosen Geralt up a little, would you?”

_ My pleasure,  _ Darcy thought privately as she saluted the other woman and made her way to her little car, unharmed thanks to Geralt’s intervention earlier. A lot of the other cars had cleared out already, and she easily packed her things, winding the windows down and setting the radio on loud. She sang along with the Chainsmokers as she sped down the road, the sun beginning its slow descent into the horizon.

Darcy parked up, smiling absently at the other cars in the hotel lot with ren fayre stickers on the trunk and bumpers, along with roleplayer slogan stickers like  _ I BRAKE FOR KOBOLDS _ and  _ KEEP CALM AND LARP ON. _

A group of ren fayre goers sat on the benches by the hotel entrance, smoking, one of them playing what looked like an actual lute, a feathered cap perched on his head and a parrot on his shoulder. Darcy grinned as she passed them. There was nothing quite like a ren fayre to bring out everything America had to offer.

At the desk, she dropped her bag on the floor and gave the clerk her details. It took a while. After five minutes, Darcy tried to lean over the high counter. “Is there a problem?”

The clerk bit her lip, tapping away at the keyboard nervously. “I’m sure it’s just some administrative error. I’ll get it sorted.”

Another five minutes passed. Quite the queue had formed behind her, and Darcy’s stomach growled. She leaned over again. “I’m sorry to put the pressure on, but, can you just tell me what’s up?”

The clerk met her gaze miserably. “I’m sorry ma’am, it seems like your room has been overbooked and it’s already occupied.”

“What? By who?” Darcy asked incredulously.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And... there was only one bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone on Tumblr for your support during this lockdown thing the world is going through.
> 
> Thanks to my lovely beta, @lokimostly x

Darcy rapped impatiently on the door of room 69 - clearly a joke from the Universe. “Geralt? You in there?”

Nothing.

She pounded again. The clerk wouldn’t give her a key because of “privacy” reasons. “I’ll give him freaking _privacy_ reasons,” Darcy had muttered on her way up the stairs, stomping angrily, not caring about the women dressed as wenches who gave her strange looks and a wide berth on the stairwell.

Given that Geralt was about to find out that she’d booked this room before he had, and the mistake meant he’d be snoozing with Roach in the hay tonight, she was going to bet that their date was… off.

“Ger-” Her tirade was cut off as the door swung open and she fell forwards in a wall of warm, damp chest.

“Darcy.” He looked mildly surprised as she struggled to peel herself off his half-naked form. _Jesus, Mary and Joseph._ He wore only a towel slung around those sculpted hips, low enough that she could see the arrow of joy leading from his navel to what she was sure would be actual Heaven. His broad chest was furred with hair two shades darker than that on his head. She bet it would feel delicious under her tongue. Just like the rest of him.

He gripped her arms and she finally shoved herself back into a standing position, meeting his melted-amber gaze. “Er, hi.” Way to go. She was on the back foot now, and hated it. “Erm, so this is awkward-”

“Is it.” The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. 

Darcy rolled her eyes. “C’mon, you know you’re twice as built as every dude here, don’t pretend you don’t know it.”

“Okay.” He folded his arms over that broad chest. The towel dipped slightly, the knot at Geralt’s left hip making a really valiant effort to stay tied.

Darcy kept her eyes on his face, with superhuman effort. “So, uh, this is actually my room.”

“Is it.”

“The clerk said there’d been a mix-up. They double-booked, but, uh, I paid first.”

Geralt unfolded his arms and gestured into the room. “Want to come in? Easier than discussing this in a towel in the hallway.”

Darcy chucked her bag in the corner of the room and tromped inside, then plopped herself on the bed. The room was military-neat, all Geralt’s clothes folded on the chair by the desk, nothing out of place. 

“Could you, er, put on some pants?”

His brow winged up, but to his credit he didn’t smile. “Sure.” 

The scent of lemon oil, the tang of metal, and steam from the shower, hung in the room as he shut the door to the bathroom. She heard the rustle of a towel and clothes, imagined him drying off the parts of him under the towel. Her mouth watered and she took a deep breath. “Just because it’s been a while, Darce, does not mean you get to climb him like a tree,” she told herself, staring unfocused at the window, looking but not really seeing.

“Maybe I’d like to be climbed.”

“Jesus!” She shot up from the bed. “Could you wear a little bell or something?”

He smiled slightly, then set his shoulders against the closed bathroom door. A plain white t-shirt hugged his torso, tapering into grey jeans that had seen better days, one leg torn at the knee. His feet were bare. The little detail felt oddly intimate. His hair hung damply around his face, a few wayward strands curling into his jaw. “So. We both booked the room, and you say you staked your claim first.”

“Yeah, that’s about the size of it,” Darcy clarified. “And there aren’t any rooms left, because of the faire. Obviously.”

“So, what do you want to do?”

“Er, what do _I_ want to do?” Darcy squeaked. “I’d like _you_ to vacate, so I can shower the day off.”

Geralt moved out of the way of the bathroom door. “Shower’s all yours. But unless the hotel also refunds me, the room’s mine.”

Frustration made Darcy growl. “It’s mine.”

A pale brow arched again. “And you thought I would do what? Sleep in the hay with Roach? Because I look like a barbarian, I should be treated like one?”

“I-” The retort died in Darcy’s throat as she considered this. The room seemed to close in on them. How many times had she been dismissed by men because they’d assumed she couldn’t have a brain and a pretty face? How many times had she been underestimated. “Sorry. I assumed that never happened to guys.”

He cracked a smile. “I’m messing with you, Darcy. But not about the money. I can’t afford to rent a room elsewhere. I did well today, took a look of orders, but most of the downpayment on the swords will go on supplies.”

Darcy shifted uncomfortably on the bed. He had no spare money. She had no spare money. Despite the warm weather, making him either sleep next to his horse or traipse around looking for somewhere else to sleep seemed churlish.

And Darcy had no doubt that he’d be able to find a bed to share. But that made something burn in the pit of her belly.

“Well… fine. I’ve got brothers, we've shared a room a time or two..." Never mind that her feeling towards Geralt were _not_ brotherly. Why don’t we get the hotel to send up a pull-out bed?” 

Geralt lifted a shoulder, dropped it in a half-shrug. “Sure. Coffee while we wait?”

“Why not. Caffeine makes everything better, right?”

“Amen,” he muttered, moving over to the pull-out drinks tray under the desk. For such a large man, he moved almost soundlessly.

While Geralt made the drinks, Darcy reached for the phone by the nightstand, dialed and relayed the issue to the clerk, but the more she heard, the worse it got. By the time she hung up, her blood was at boiling point. She thanked the clerk and barely resisted slamming the phone handset into the cradle.

“Cream, sugar?”

“Loads of both.”

If he thought that was unusual, he didn’t say anything, just offering her the mug. Darcy took it, inhaling the sweet, sweet caffeine gratefully. “They’re out of fold down beds.”

“Hmmm. Of course they are.” Geralt sipped from his own mug, which held straight black coffee. Steam rose from the mug, heady, fragrant. “So. What’s the plan? Draw straws to see who gets the to hit the hay, or share like functional adults?”

That made Darcy crack a smile over her coffee. “Depends. Has anyone ever accused you of being a functional adult? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’m not one.”

"So, what do you suggest?" Geralt asked, keeping his face carefully neutral.

"Well.... I might have a _terrible_ plan."


End file.
